The wizarding world had barely recovered from the shock of losing Harry Potter when the next blow struck — one that would carve terror straight into the heart of Britain.
It happened without warning.
No build-up like the old war.
Just violence.
Sudden.
Chaotic.
Cowardly.
It was a warm afternoon. Vendors were shouting. Children were eating ice cream. Witches were haggling over brooms. Life was normal.
Then—
A violent crack, like bones snapping in unison.
Ten masked Death Eaters materialized in the center of Diagon Alley in a swirl of dark cloaks and glittering Portkey dust.
They did not speak.
They simply raised their wands—
—and began firing.
Colourful curses tore through the air.
Orange fire blasts ignited roofs.
Glass exploded from windows like shrapnel.
Shoppers screamed.
Shopkeepers ducked behind counters.
An old wizard threw his wand aside and crawled behind a crate, sobbing.
Even though there were fifty witches and wizards in the street—
even though the Death Eaters were outnumbered five to one—
everyone ran.
Panic drowned reason.
Fear smothered courage.
They fled like sheep before wolves.
Shutters slammed.
Doors locked.
The street emptied in seconds.
The Death Eaters laughed — cold, triumphant, cruel.
One conjured fire serpents that slithered across a storefront, setting it ablaze.
Another shattered all the street lamps.
Another blasted the sign off Flourish and Blotts.
One hexed Gringotts' steps, gouging deep scars into the marble.
Then—just as abruptly—
they grabbed their Portkeys and vanished.
Leaving chaos behind.
Barely twenty minutes later—
Five more Death Eaters descended upon Hogsmeade's main street.
It was evening, warm light spilling from pub windows.
The moment they appeared, people screamed.
A masked Death Eater flicked his wand lazily.
Confringo.
Honeydukes' windows erupted, chocolates and glass raining down like hail.
Another set the roof of Zonko's Joke Shop ablaze.
Witches Apparated away in panic.
Students from visiting families shrieked and ducked.
Even Aurors patrolling nearby hesitated for a split second —
—and that was all the Death Eaters needed.
They fired a few more curses, laughed in the villagers' faces, and vanished again, slipping through the cracks of fear they had just carved open.
Not a single person was injured.
Not a single person stood their ground.
The attacks were not meant to kill.
They were meant to announce.
Within an hour, fear had flooded every fireplace and pub in the country.
"The Death Eaters are back—!"
"Where is the Ministry—?"
"Why didn't they fight—?"
"Why did everyone run—?"
"Is He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named returning—?"
No one had answers.
The Ministry sent Aurors in droves—
but they arrived too late in both places.
As they always did.
Fudge stammered through an emergency broadcast:
"I assure the public— th-that the situation is under control— the Ministry is looking into— into—"
But his voice shook too violently to hide his terror.
Dumbledore stood silently outside Hogwarts, eyes solemn.
Even the children sensed the change in the air.
It was beginning again.
The fear.
The panic.
The helplessness.
And worst of all—
The wizarding world had no champion left to protect them.
They had chased him away.
And now, when shadows crept back into their streets—
when masked killers returned—
when the familiar terror settled on their necks—
they realized something far too late:
Harry Potter wasn't coming.
He wasn't their weapon anymore.
He wasn't their savior.
He wasn't theirs at all.
Dobby appeared before Harry with a crack.
"Master Harry," the elf whispered, eyes wide, "Britain is burning."
Harry didn't turn from his desk where diagrams of starship fuel were spread out.
"Let it burn."
Dobby bowed his head. "As you command, Master."
Lucius Malfoy stepped gracefully out of the emerald flames of the Floo network, brushing soot from his immaculate robes. Malfoy Manor's grand foyer glowed with candlelight reflected off expensive silver fixtures, the perfect portrait of upper-class wizarding refinement.
Draco sat on a velvet armchair near the window, pale hair catching the light as he flipped through a thick potions tome. At the sight of his father, he straightened immediately.
Lucius allowed himself a proud smile.
"Potions are useful, Draco," he said in a smooth, cultured tone, "but diversify. Read more Defense texts as well. Proper ones — not the drivel Hogwarts assigns."
Draco nodded. "Yes, Father."
Lucius gave him a pat on the shoulder and walked deeper into the manor.
Narcissa waited for him near the stairs, elegant as ever. "Lucius," she said softly, "how is Minister Fudge doing? He must be in hysterics after the attacks."
Lucius's lips curled into a smug smirk. "Utterly panicked. Practically shaking. But I calmed him down, told him not to worry. Reassured him it wasn't real Death Eaters — merely a few wannabes causing trouble. Even suggested it might be Dumbledore's lackeys, stirring fear to manipulate politics."
Narcissa's eyes hardened.
Without another word, she grabbed Lucius's hand and pulled him upstairs. When they reached their private bedroom, she shut the door sharply behind them.
Her voice dropped to a cold hiss.
"Enough lies, Lucius. I know it was you. You and your friends."
Lucius stiffened.
Narcissa stepped closer, her blue eyes blazing. "Everything was peaceful for years. Years. Why would you throw us back into danger? Do you know what happens if the Ministry catches you involved in this?"
Lucius tried to compose himself. "My dear—"
"Don't." Narcissa cut him off. "I spoke to the other wives. All of you have been disappearing at the same hours. Meeting secretly. Plotting."
She grabbed his wrist.
"You promised me. PROMISED, Lucius, that we were finished with this madness."
Lucius pulled away, jaw tightening.
Then, slowly, he rolled up his sleeve.
Narcissa gasped.
The Dark Mark — once faded to a faint, sickly grey — was now pitch black, pulsing faintly as though breathing.
"Do you see?" Lucius whispered. "This didn't happen during the attacks. This happened before."
Narcissa's breath hitched. "No… no, Lucius, it can't mean that—"
"It does." Lucius stepped closer, his face pale but resolute. "He is back. Or returning. Or alive enough to summon us."
"But— but you don't know that! You don't know—"
"I DO." Lucius's voice cracked, fear bleeding through. "If he returns and finds us lounging in luxury, pretending we forgot him— do you know what he will do to us? To YOU? To Draco?"
Narcissa trembled.
Lucius cupped her face gently, but his own expression was twitching between fear and pride.
"We must look active," he whispered. "Loyal. Ready. Otherwise he'll tear us apart when he rises again."
Narcissa shook her head violently. "Lucius—this isn't loyalty. This is suicide. The Ministry isn't blind anymore. If they catch you—"
"They won't," Lucius snapped. "We struck fast, escaped faster. And the public is terrified — just as the Dark Lord would want."
He looked at his wife with a mix of desperation and fanaticism.
"We must show we still believe. In our cause. In our superiority. In the purity we once fought for."
Narcissa looked away, eyes glistening with fear.
"Lucius… we have a son."
Lucius's voice softened. "And that is why we must survive his return."
Narcissa felt her knees weaken.
The mark on Lucius's arm throbbed again.
A chilling reminder.
A warning.
A promise.
Narcissa whispered, barely audible: "Then Merlin help us all…"
He had once been feared across continents.
A name spoken in whispers.
A shadow that made even the bravest wizards tremble.
Now?
He wasn't even sure if he deserved to call himself "Dark Lord" anymore.
Because Lord Voldemort was trapped in the fragile, pathetic body of Peter Pettigrew.
And Peter's stolen flesh was weak.
Pathetically weak.
Its magical core was a joke — a puddle where his was once an ocean.
Voldemort sat hunched on a creaking bed inside a filthy rented room above a shop in Knockturn Alley. The walls were damp, mold creeping like black veins. Rats skittered through the ceiling — ironically the only creatures he could not bring himself to murder, given his current circumstances.
He pulled the thin cloak tighter around himself.
His hands — Pettigrew's hands — trembled.
Not from fear.
From exhaustion.
Using even basic spells drained him.
"Pathetic," he hissed to no one. "Reduced to this."
His voice cracked from lack of strength.
He had been here for over a week.
Sleeping in the dirt, hiding among criminals, living like a stray animal.
Most of the time, he stayed in rat form, curled up in the corner, because—
If either side recognizes me, I am dead.
The Aurors would kill him.
The Death Eaters would kill him.
Even the shopkeepers of Knockturn Alley would stomp him to death if they knew the truth.
The great Lord Voldemort — hiding in gutters.
He remembered all too well what happened at Borgin and Burkes.
When he showed himself—
When he expected fear—
When he expected loyalty—
Borgin had cast Crucio on him.
Twice.
The memory made Voldemort clench his stolen fists.
Borgin… you will suffer for that, he vowed silently.
Once I regain my true power… I will peel the flesh from your skull one strip at a time.
But those were dreams even he couldn't believe yet.
Life here was miserable.
He walked the alley with his hood drawn low.
Knockturn Alley's air reeked of old smoke, blood, and rotten potions.
But he moved quietly, avoiding eye contact with anyone.
He could not afford to be seen.
He could not afford to answer questions.
He could not afford a wand pointed at him.
He could barely hold a wand at all.
Every evening, he retreated into rat form —
small, trembling, unnoticed.
Safer that way.
Safer… and humiliating.
Then came the news.
Two Death Eater attacks.
Two bursts of terror in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade.
For the first time in weeks, Voldemort's heart leapt.
They remember me.
They act in my name.
My followers still exist… still breathe… still fight.
It was hope — fragile, thin, dangerous hope.
But beneath it lay fear.
Which follower did this?
Would they recognize me in this form?
Would they bow… or strike me down for weakness?
He remembered Borgin's curses.
He remembered how easily they could kill him now.
A Lord who cannot kill is no Lord at all.
He had spent every night searching for answers.
Old books, hidden rituals, illegal potions.
Anything that could:
restore his magic
strengthen Pettigrew's pitiful body
give him a new body
bind a new vessel
transfer his soul
rebuild his core
Nothing worked.
He slammed a dusty tome shut, sparks of red anger flickering in his eyes.
"Useless… all useless…"
Pettigrew's voice shook with frustration.
Voldemort hated it.
He needed a body.
He needed power.
He needed followers he could trust.
But in this moment?
He had nothing.
Just the rattling breath of another man's weak lungs.
Just the grinding pulse of another man's feeble magic.
Just the stench of a room barely fit for rats.
And the knowledge that the wizarding world was trembling—
not because of him…
but because of followers acting without him.
Followers he didn't dare approach.
Followers who might kill him for being too weak to command.
Voldemort curled his fingers into the filthy blanket and whispered, voice trembling with fury:
"I am Lord Voldemort… I WILL rise again… even if I must crawl through blood and mud to reclaim what is mine…"
But deep down—
for the first time since his first fall—
a sliver of doubt crept into his heart.
What if he never regained the power to rule?
What if he remained trapped in this pathetic shell?
What if the world forgot him?
He clenched his teeth.
I will not be forgotten.
I will not die as Pettigrew.
I will return…
or I will burn the world with me.
And in the darkness of Knockturn Alley,
a rat squeaked softly —
but in its eyes burned the rage of a fallen god.
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